


You've Got Pollen on Your Nose

by homosociallyyours



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crack, Hallucinations, JLCGBC, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen, Sherlock is a bee, Synesthesia, johnlockchallenges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CRACK. SMUT. FLUFF? yes to all. </p>
<p>I have been wanting to write a crack-y sex pollen fic for quite a while now (literally ever since I heard the words "sex pollen") and when I received stonecoldblue's prompt for the johnlockchallenges grab bag challenge,<br/>"What have flowers got to do with anything?" "Everything."<br/>This crack bunny was one of the first that came to mind. I'm so glad I ran with it, and I really hope that it is a reasonable fill for stonecoldblue!</p>
<p>Just a word on the "mildly dubious consent" thing: I figure a sex pollen fic is always going to have some dub con happening. I doubt this will squick most people, because this John and Sherlock are pretty pleased with everything that happens by the end. However, enthusiastic consent is not given, so. I tagged it thusly. </p>
<p>Really don't know what else to say except crack, smut, a hint of fluff, and oh Sherlock as a bee. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Got Pollen on Your Nose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stonecoldblue.tumblr.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=stonecoldblue.tumblr.com).



“Looks like there’s been another one, Sherlock,” I called out from my desk. I was browsing a few news sites as I sipped my morning cuppa, and the story that was buried in a local online paper was precisely what I’d been looking for. It wasn’t a murder, but it was certainly an unusual case, and Sherlock was getting increasingly antsy at the lack of anything grisly of late. 

I opened a document and began slowly compiling the details, or what I could glean from the series of vaguely worded articles I’d been tracking down over the past week or so. 

1\. All the incidents had taken place in posh restaurants at peak dinner service.   
2\. Arrests had all fallen under the category of public indecency.   
3\. Anyone who was present was completely unclear on what had happened--or if they knew, they weren’t saying anything.   
4\. There was no clear connection between any of the restaurants or incidents. Each had a different owner, and none of the same clientele. The only thing that linked them was that the same mysterious crime had happened at each location. 

Sherlock finally responded to me with a slight snarl, “is this your indecency case again, John? Honestly, I don’t care unless someone has died or there’s a truly intriguing element.”

“How are you not intrigued by 4 very similar cases all occurring in the same week, each in a different, seemingly unrelated location, that are being hushed up in all the papers? It reeks of scandal and mystery to me,” I replied huffily. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hovered behind me, scanning the article quickly. “Could be not boring,” he said half-heartedly. 

“It’s either this or a Doctor Who marathon,” I said in reply. 

“Which Doctor?”   
“Ten. And Rose.”   
“Tedious. The case it is.”   
“Right then,” I downed the last of my tea and took a quick shower. I figured it was best to get out of the house before Sherlock flipped on the telly and realized that it was actually the Ten/Martha episodes that he’d really seemed to enjoy the first time around. 

We left the house and were on our way to the most recently mentioned restaurant when I realized that this particular crime scene would not be like all the others we’d been to. “Sherlock, just how are we going to get into this place? Lestrade won’t be there. This isn’t his division.” 

“Don’t worry, John, I’ve brought a disguise,” he replied with a wink. He pulled a bowtie out of his pocket and tied it rather quickly, adjusting it around the collar of a crisp white shirt. So he’d go in as a waiter and I’d be...what? 

“Good disguise for you, but what about me?” he turned to eye me with a hint of disdain. 

“You’ll be the every man, John. They’ll let you in if you just tell them you belong. I’d stick out.” I rolled my eyes at this assertion but realized he was right, as usual. When we arrived at the scene, I strode through the front doors while Sherlock went around back to the employees’ entrance. A woman was standing in front looking official, so I went over and introduced myself.

Her name was Marisa, and she was a Detective Sergeant. Though she was a bit younger than I usually liked, we began talking like two people who rather fancied one another, so much so that Sherlock was hardly able to pull us away from one another when he approached. 

“So good to meet you, John,” she said as she placed the flower she'd been twirling behind her ear. “Take my card and,” she clicked open a pen and scrawled some numbers down very quickly, “try me on my cell if you want to talk about the case any further.” I giggled drunkenly in response and Sherlock just rolled his eyes at the two of us. 

He nearly pulled my arm out of the socket dragging me from the building, and when we finally reached the outdoors he turned to me with a strange look and said, “Honestly John, I don’t understand why you’d have an interest in a dull woman like that one. In addition to being just a little better than half your age, she seemed completely disconnected from the case at hand.” 

I thought back to my first impression of her and realized Sherlock was correct. She hadn’t written anything down in her small notebook, and she’d not even bothered to ask what I was doing at the crime scene. 

“She did seem a bit odd, didn’t she?” I swayed a bit on the sidewalk, realizing that I felt a little tipsy. Not for any reason I could imagine, though. I hadn’t been drinking, and I’d had a full meal a couple hours earlier. Sherlock was busy hailing a cab, and only noticed when I leaned into his arm to steady myself. 

“Have you been drinking, John?” he asked me with a shocked look on his face. 

“Noo,” I drawled. I shook my head, hard. “Jesus, Sherlock, I feel like I’m just...in a fog,” my legs felt loose and I felt my jeans tighten at my groin. Before I had time to think about what may have been causing my sudden arousal, a cab pulled up and Sherlock shoved me in first, folding himself in right behind me. He barked our address to the cabbie and I laid my head on the cool glass of the window and very quickly fell asleep. 

I woke to Sherlock’s voice near my ear, not loud, but insistent. “Wake. Up. John.” We weren’t quite to Baker Street, but we were close. I blinked the sleep out of my eyes and turned to ask Sherlock if something had come to him regarding the case. Then, quite suddenly, I realized that I was sporting a rather inappropriate erection. 

“Oh!” I exclaimed, pulling off my jacket and covering my lap. I tried to will it away by thinking of the least enticing images my mind could conjure. Gory old medical text book photos that had never quite left my mind usually did the trick, but in this case it didn’t seem to be working. 

I launched myself out of the cab, leaving Sherlock to pay, and got upstairs and into the shower as quickly as I was able to. I tossed off under the lukewarm water, and the haze that I’d been in since we’d left the restaurant lifted almost immediately. While toweling off, I heard my text alert sound, and picked up my phone to see a string of messages from Sherlock. He was headed to the restaurant that had been the scene of a previous night’s crime in the hopes that he might find some evidence that hadn’t been destroyed by time or the incompetencies of the Yard. 

I didn’t mind, really. I pulled on a pair of pyjamas and curled up on the couch to catch the tail end of Martha and the Doctor’s Shakespeare episode. 

 

I fell asleep about 10 minutes in, and had a series of bizarrely sexual dreams, most of which I couldn’t fully remember when I woke. In the one that I could remember, I was climbing a ladder up to the clouds, when all of a sudden the ladder became the stem of a flower, and the clouds became a mass of petals. Pollen started raining down in drops the size of golf balls that grew steadily until they were as big as my head. One burst over my head and I was covered in a fine dusting of yellow powder. I heard a buzzing sound from above, and looked up to see Sherlock descending quickly toward me. He was himself, but also a bee. His coat billowed out around him in stripes of black and gold, tiny wings growing out of the back to keep him aloft. He landed next to me and began touching me with his long fingers, collecting the pollen that coated my bare chest. 

Right, I was naked. Climbing a pole. With Sherlock touching me. It was a dream, ok? 

And it only got worse, anyway. 

When he’d gathered all the pollen he could with his fingers, he began licking me with his incredibly long tongue--his proboscis. The tongue tickled, and it was strange to watch it unfurl itself from Sherlock’s mouth. I started laughing, and this agitated the Sherlock-bee. He buzzed around me angrily, and then revealed his stinger. 

Of course the stinger was his prick. It was fully erect and leaking, and somehow the Sherlock-bee--who couldn’t speak--communicated to me that the only way to help him was to cover his stinger with pollen. I swiped a hand down my chest and gathered as much pollen as I could before giving his stinger/cock a long pull. 

I moaned aloud at the action, and woke myself up. My hand was resting on my cock, which was, thankfully, not hard. I breathed a sigh of relief and then noticed that a light was on in the kitchen, so I called out Sherlock’s name, and he drawled my name back in response. 

He leaned back in his chair, and from where he was seated in the kitchen I could just see his long, exposed neck as he called my name again, “Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnn,” chuckling to himself as he hummed out the last dying “n” sound. 

I sat up and scrubbed a hand over my face, wondering if I was somehow still asleep. I thought a few questions might help me wake up, and I started by asking him if he’d found anything at the second crime scene. 

“Flowers!” he shouted, standing up so quickly that his chair toppled over. 

“What have flowers got to do with anything?” He had a wild look in his eyes, though I couldn’t quite understand why. “Everything, John!” he replied, picking something up from the kitchen table and striding toward me on the couch. “Everything.” 

He held a mostly dead flower tightly in his right hand. I watched as he crushed it and then blew the petals into the air over our heads.

“Are you alright? You don’t seem yourself at all, and I...” 

I stopped talking when Sherlock started running his hands through my hair. He smiled at me dopily, all the while muttering: “Flowers, John. Obviously. I should have brought you flowers. Everyone loves flowers. Bees love flowers. I love bees. I love flowers. Come see these flowers, John.” 

He pulled me into the kitchen, where I saw that he had vivisected one of the flowers from the more recent restaurant crime scene. Its component parts were laid out carefully on a tray, stem separated from petals, the stamen and pistil cleanly and carefully taken apart and laid equidistant from one another. I hadn’t paid much attention during the one semester of botany that I’d tried taking at uni, so the names of each bit eluded me, but needless to say it was quite a lovely scene. 

The stamen of the flower was loaded with deep, saffron-hued pollen. I leaned in to get a closer look, then gasped sharply as I felt Sherlock’s breath at my ear. The flower pieces flew into the air, and a puff of golden pollen rose up and tickled my nose. Sherlock’s too, I decided when I turned toward him. 

“You’ve got pollen on your nose,” he said to me quietly. It might have sounded tender if his face wasn’t clouded over with a mixture of lust and inebriation. His eyes weren’t quite focused, and again his lips were pulled into a wide grin. He leaned in and kissed the edge of my nose, and finally the pieces all fell together for me: at the restaurant earlier, the woman had been holding one of the flowers, twirling it around in her hand. I must have gotten a relatively weak dose of the pollen then, and the effects had lasted quite a while. I felt a twinge of sympathy for all those diners who thought they were having a typical romantic dinner and then ended up feeling drunk and... terribly horny. 

I realized with horror that Sherlock was coating his fingers in the pollen from the other flowers he’d collected. It dotted his face, and he reached out and touched my lips, trailing his finger down my neck and leaving behind a swipe of the golden powder. 

The feeling swept over me like a wave, and suddenly I was consumed by my lust. My clothes felt constrictive, and so I ripped them off. Sherlock was doing the same, and neither of us was bothering with buttons or zips if we didn’t need to. One of his buttons hit me in the face, and the touch of it sent me reeling backward. The point of contact stung, then pulsed through me hotly. 

Experimentally, I tried touching myself--just my arm, actually. It felt good, certainly better than a touch on the arm would usually feel. I laughed a little, and the sound appeared in a wave of color in front of me. “Sherlock, the sounds have colors. Can you see them?” I reached out to touch him as I asked, and the contact of my finger on his skin felt electric. I gasped and drew back slightly, only to look up and see Sherlock advancing toward me. “I see it. I see every word spelling itself out as I talk, and your body pulsing with energy. And that. I felt. Did you?” 

It was incoherent, and yet it made sense to both of us. I nodded my head and felt the air part and move away with each motion. Sherlock reached toward me and, taking my face in both his hands, kissed me deeply. There was no prelude whatsoever. His lips met mine and our mouths were open. His tongue pressed against mine, and I pressed back. 

The kiss felt like fire. We were burning at each point of contact, and I started to hear music in my head. The Flight of the Bumblebees. The stinger. 

My dream rushed back to me in full force, and I groaned as I sunk to my knees, leaning into him all the way down. His cock was hard and the tip was blushing red. A golden pollen handprint was on the shaft, and I licked at it in an attempt to match the taste with the one that was burning in my mouth. The flavor was rich and spicy, like curry from our favorite takeaway place. Sherlock moaned at the touch of my mouth, and the room flooded with pulsing red light. 

I began sucking him in earnest, and his hand fell to the back of my head, grinding me harder onto his cock. The heat became concentrated in his hand, and the flavor of his prick changed. It was suddenly sweeter, honey sweet, and I groaned with delight at the way that the taste coated my mouth. Sherlock responded by calling out my name, and the sound of it was a multi-hued purple storm of letters falling on my head, cooling me down even as the warmth of his touch spread down my back and began collecting where my body met the floor. 

I pulled back and began experimenting with the sensations that accompanied sucking him. Each movement of my mouth changed the sounds that reverberated in my head. The hollowing of my cheeks made wind rush in my ears like one of our rooftop chases, while the open mouthed tonguing of the tip of his cock sounded like his footsteps on the stairs up to the flat. The taste was still sweet, like summer berries macerated in sugar until they were swimming in their own juice. 

Meanwhile Sherlock had begun to talk quickly and steadily, if somewhat incoherently, at a volume just loud enough to reach my ears. Though he usually didn’t swear, and I’d never pictured him as someone who’d talk dirty, he weaved a stream of obscenities that danced around me and filled me from the inside, layering on top of the purple of my name. 

“Fuck, John. God yes, your mouth is better than a double homicide on a sunny day. Goddamnchristbuggering, just suck me hard take my mind I’ll have another tomorrow anyway and fuck, yes. Yes John, theretherethere, that. That. John I’ve never told you you’re brilliant, but you are, you’re the opposite of Andersen, you’re the opposite of Mycroft, your mouth John, fuck. Please don’t stop don’t don’t I’ll not ever not take you with me when there’s been a case I. I’ll ohhhh, God, you. You’re going to be my text alert, John I want the sound of your mouth on my cock whenever I...Ahhhhh.” 

His hand fisted into my hair and he thrust hard into my mouth as he came. Swallowing him down was like swigging cherry wine from the bottle as a teenager. Sticky sweet and spilling out the sides of my mouth. I pulled off of him and licked at my chin to get the last drops, wishing for more. 

I hadn’t forgotten my own erection, but I’d been more focused on Sherlock’s until now. With him spent, I let out a whine that filled the room with a glaring chartreuse. “Please, Sherlock,” was all I managed to get out before he pulled me from my knees and sat me down in one of the kitchen chairs. He massaged up my legs, and his fingers trailed color behind them. I was so full of the color from his words that I thought he must have been pulling it up through my skin. “Not sure how you’re doing that, but it’s bloody brilliant. I never thought colors felt so good,” I said as he began brushing his lips against my inner thighs, edging closer to my cock. 

When he finally took me into his mouth, I heard violins. Or really just one violin--his--playing some classical piece by Bach or Mozart or some other famous composer that he’d usually deride me for not knowing the name of immediately. I grasped the edge of the chair tightly and watched him with fascination. I’d had a lot of blowjobs before, but this was unlike any of them. His mouth formed a perfect heart around me, and I began to hear a drumbeat under the violins that mimicked the sound of his heartbeat racing along with mine. 

Quite suddenly, drowsiness began to creep up on me. My head fell back, but I willed myself to stay awake a little longer, moving my hands from the chair to his head so that I could try to coax the heat from his curls. I ran my toes along his back and wrapped my legs around him as much as possible so that he was pulled tight next to me. If he’d been able to speak, he would have been speaking in a filthy stream of consciousness again. As it was I felt him humming against my cock, the slight changes in vibration resonating inside of me like a tuning fork. 

My orgasm was building quickly now, in spite of the fact that my eyes were closing and my body was going limp. I felt all the colors from Sherlock’s words pooling at the base of my cock, and I pulled him away. I wanted to come all over his face and bare chest, run my hands through it, and have him suck it off my fingers until there was nothing left. A few quick pumps of my cock and I was releasing a rainbow all over him. 

“Ohh yes, John, yes, let me suck the color from you, coat me in your words, brilliantastonishingextraordinary, Christfuckingyes,” he whispered feverishly. I swiped a finger through a stream of turquoise and put it in his mouth. The suction sounded like the ocean, so soothing and perfect that I wanted to curl up and let the noise rock me to sleep. I unfolded myself from the chair and pushed him backwards onto the kitchen floor. We laid there for a moment before sleep took us. The last thing I remember was my hand on his chest and his voice saying, “and again and again, and I’d not stop until you were on fire, burning up like he promised but I’d save you I’d put you out anything I’d John I’d anything I’d do I’d John you have to do it again.” 

When we woke it was almost dawn. My head throbbed and my back ached from sleeping on the floor, not to mention the fact that both of us were a sticky mess. In addition to the come that had dried on our bodies, it also seemed that the pantry had been raided; we were covered in jam and honey, flour and sugar, butter, and what appeared to be the contents of some Indian takeaway from two nights previous. Pulling myself up into a sitting position, I chanced a look at Sherlock. His eyes were open, and darted around the room quickly, taking in all the details of the scene. 

Our eyes met and he groaned, then rolled away from me. I couldn’t help but laugh. It was embarrassing and ridiculous, and of course now all the obliquely worded newspaper articles all made sense now. I pictured entire restaurants destroyed by people having synesthetic hallucinations, and I had a maniacal laughing fit right there, naked on our kitchen floor. Sherlock turned back to me, still slightly annoyed with the situation but more frustrated with not being in on my joke. “What’s so funny?” he snapped. 

“Nothing Sherlock, just--this is the last non-homicide we’ll do, if you’d like. I really know how to pick ‘em, apparently.” 

“Don’t be so hasty, John. This case was far from boring. And it’s been awhile since the results of solving the case also required some deductions on my part,” he replied with a smirk. 

“So you liked this one, then? If you want another like this we might need to get a real housekeeper, I’m afraid,” I said in return. 

He smiled slyly, reaching around me and picking up a small baggie from the floor under the table. Holding it right above my face he said: “We may not have exhausted our findings with this particular case yet either, John.” 

A perfect flower, bursting with pollen, was sealed tightly inside the bag. Amused, I plucked it from his hand and said: “Mine. For safe keeping. Next time we’ll work with this particular piece of evidence in a room with a few softer surfaces. In the meantime, we better call the Yard and let them know that flowers were the key to everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to draw dream bee! Sherlock, I'd basically love you forever. Just saying.


End file.
